GAME OF THRONES

JOFFERÉT

The thrill of it all.

Jofferét remembered the first time he had done it-

killing, that is. It was here, in the Riverlands, far from Meander. Back then, he was no older than little Tommeños. Now however- as men died around him, the young Prince knew that it was not time for such halcyon thoughts.

Above, streams of fire, akin to tea being poured from a kettle, rained down from Meander's battlements. Men screamed as flames caused skin to melt and slough off. The Prince had seen it before. Mother... she was so scared, when he and Father left. Jofferét had been scared too.

Now... he liked it. Killing- It wasn't that it felt good.

It felt horrible.

Though...

The Prince blinked.

Trenches on either side of Jofferét shook, black smog rushing overhead in the aftermath of both ally and rebel artillery. He had advanced too far, he knew that now-

But there was nothing to be done. Jofferét and the forces loaned to him were pinned near the northernmost outer wall of Meander- to their immediate back, a strong river flowed, of which tiny tributaries snaked about it, as if offspring. Ahead, rebel trenches cut across muddy earth, effectively trapping the Prince within a triangle-like formation. The terrain and constant rain made using warmachines useless, and even sturdier Baratheon tanks often got stuck; Horses were the only viable means of transportation. They had abandoned their vehicles weeks ago.

They had no horses.

Their saving grace was that they fled unto trenches that rose into a knoll- they were able to see the river and its concurrent streams, along with a good portion of the battlefield, if elements were right.

Jofferét swallowed heavily. Nervousness began to tug at him- but the boy swatted it away.

He and the majority of his men were alive. The enemy had declined to advance- here and there, they would order a direct attack, however it seemed that whatever casualties dealt them, they decided, after some time, it was best to let be, save for ranged strikes, of course.

The Prince was glad- casualties had been low due to this- and of the seven thousand men he commanded, he retained about five thousand and two hundred.

Of the lost, most were due to desertion and disease. Father taught Jofferét to respect those who died under his watch, a lesson that the boy took seriously. He may not know their names, but he would remember them.

Or try to.

More artillery blasts assailed Jofferét's position- currently, the Prince was seated amongst back-trenches, a simple tent covering his head. He was armored, though he went without a helmet. Blonde hair was blackened by grime and mud, and his face felt dry despite the soft rain. Jofferét leaned backwards, allowing his head to touch against one of the trench walls.

Father told Jofferét something, long ago.

Father said that if he was ever losing, he must ensure that his men see him without a helmet- ensure that the men see his eyes. Jofferét remembered laughing at this advice then, saying it was foolish.

What's foolish is you, boy. Fresh from the cunt, doubting a man who killed his way to ensure you stand where you do now.

Jofferét, unphased, asked Father how going without proper armor would inspire the men. What if he died? Wouldn't they lose all hope?

Father, of course, had an answer.

You have but one life. Not two, not three. One. Remember that. Your men will remember this. If you do not meet them on the line of death, they will not follow you. And if they don't follow you, it won't matter if you die in battle. Fate and circumstance will ensure you die far before the battle has been decided.

Jofferét sat up, ears twitching at the sound of greaves marching towards him.

The prince consciously straightened, embarrassed by the fact he did so. He had killed, he had dealt cruelties-

And yet...

I feel a boy amongst these men. Commoner and noble alike.

The Prince's bright green eyes narrowed, offering a glance at the Kingsguard that ambled before him.

Ser Blount stumbled before Jofferét, the boy recognizing the bore by arms and colors. Jofferét frowned, before locking eyes with the Lord Commander's marble visage.

Lord Selmy regarded Jofferét warmly, though the Prince could tell from his movement that the old man was tired. Jofferét wanted to stand, bow-

He wanted to order someone to give Ser Selmy a seat, some wine- water, perhaps.

But Jofferét knew he had to maintain a sense of composure. Selmy's presence was one reason why he had decided to stay put-

Father entrusted him with the Kingsguard.

He would not throw them to their deaths. All lives were valuable, of course-

Maybe to a certain extent.

But the Kingsguard...

Jofferét coughed, clearing phlegm from his throat.

It was quiet, now. The artillery had ceased, something Jofferét found strange.

It always came and went, of course-

But never like this... so abrupt, without any movement from forces under his command.

Blount bowed ungraciously, nearly tripping as one boot stuck into mud. Ser Selmy lowered his head graciously, before removing a hissing helmet.

Ser Blount stepped aside, allowing Selmy to stand before the Prince.

Jofferét turned to face his teacher, green eyes rapt as he set tight jaws.

"Sers." Jofferét offered simply.

Blount's helmed demeanor faltered, though Selmy stepped closer.

"The King's forces are advancing. From two fronts. One towards us, the other west." Ser Selmy reported.

Jofferét coughed.

"And what of the enemy?" The Prince asked softly.

"They have reinforced the position they took nights ago. Along our sides and from Meander. They haven't moved for the rivers."

Jofferét nodded.

"It is good we placed those mines. I was worried they'd find some way to disable them since they saw us."

The two Kingsguard remained silent, offering the Prince no response.

"How long?" Jofferét quietly intoned.

"Your Grace?" Selmy replied.

"How long do you think it would take. How long until they reach us, if they can."

Selmy thought for a moment.

However, it was Blount who answered.

"We would be able to meet them if we roused the men. Advanced towards the King."

Jofferét smiled- it was a wicked one. He felt a tinge of fear, apprehension. He could die, of course.

He killed so many. Slit their throats, stabbed them. Jofferét hadn't taken any prisoners in the four years he and Father had been in the Riverlands-

Did Jofferét deserve to die? He wasn't sure. Though the prospect enthralled them.. The promise of survival.

They had made it this far. What was it, to leave these fish-eaters to their conflicts?

Should they march towards the rebel trenches?

Jofferét thought for a moment.

No. If they're close enough that we could meet them if we attacked the trenches...

The Prince stared ahead blankly.

We've been sitting here, dying... while they argued like a flock of women.

We've died. Father won't be amongst those wasted... thus, we can wait.

Jofferét leaned forward. He cleared his throat once more, before turning to face the two Kingsguard.

"We have superior visibility here. We hold, but rally the men. Once our King breaks through, we'll meet whatever forces are there. It's time. I'm fucking tired of it, Meander." Jofferét spat childishly.

Both Kingsguard bowed. They turned, beginning to leave.

Jofferét raised his gauntlet towards them, armor clinking.

"Has there been word from Lord Lannister?" Jofferét asked sternly, deepening his voice once more.

This time, even Ser Selmy faltered.

Blount offered no word as Barristan's gaze fell from the Prince.

"No, Your Grace."

Ei Jaïme... please-

Be safe. Be alive.

Jofferét's expression harshened.

"We are soon to be in the season of killing."

Jofferét stood, stretching. His armor whined, protesting at the sudden movement after hours of stillness.

NEXT TIME: JAÏME I